But little could be seen, for the fog was thick, and shut out all except what was within their immediate vicinity. Nothing but rocks and seaweed appeared. The rocks were rude and jagged crags, upheaved in wild disorder, with huge boulders lying in the interstices and hollows. Over all these was a vast accumulation of sea-weed.
“It’s ashore somewhere that we must be,” said Pat; “but where it is I don’t know at all, at all, so I don’t; somewhere on the Carleton shore, so it is. The island’s over there, and this ought to be the baich. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You stay here by the boat, and I’ll go off and see if I can make out anything.”
Saying this, Pat started off to explore the rocks and see the country. Phil sat down on the wet sea-weed, holding the painter. His heart was full of fervent gratitude for his astonishing escape, and as his memory brought back the terrible events that had happened since he left the island, a prayer of thankfulness was breathed forth from his inmost soul to the One who had preserved him.
In a short time Pat returned. He looked disappointed, vexed, and somewhat puzzled.
“We’re not on the baich at all,” said he, in a tone of vextion.
“Where are we—on an island?”
“Niver an island,” said Pat. “It’s a rock that we’re on. It’s what they call a rafe. But what it is I don’t know. It’s big enough, and runs over iver so far. Anyhow, we’re not far from the harbor, or from the island. If I ony knowed how far we were from the shore, I’d like it better. But I can’t see anything, or hear anything of it.”
“Perhaps we’re close by the shore,” said Phil.
“No; I’ll tell you where it is. I have it. I knowed it,” cried Pat. “I was sure of it, ony I couldn’t get hold of it. Ye know that rafe lying off the Carleton shore—Shad Rocks?”
“Yes,” said Phil.